


Living with the Firelight

by antonymmouse (Yakkai)



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Blow Jobs, Build up, Cowgirl Position, Drinking, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 05:11:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17380211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yakkai/pseuds/antonymmouse
Summary: He had always been fine to let folk believe what they wanted about him, encouraged it, maybe even. He bathed and dressed and kept himself well as much because heknewhe was worth looking at as because it kept people from examining his character, intimidated them out of speaking to him. Folks made their assumptions and went on their way and he liked that just fine. But then, Javier knows, he has a certain irresistibility to him.Arthur Morgan was a fly in his web.





	Living with the Firelight

**Author's Note:**

> i just love javier escuella and i can't be sorry for that.
> 
> Beta read lovingly by Inconocible.

Javier had known many hungers in his life. 

He’d known the blood of a dozen men on his knife, never suffering a minute of guilt for their deaths, recognizing that more yet would have to die by his hand to affect real change. He’d cleaned the dust of a hundred cities off his boots, not once understanding the worth of his home until dust was all he had -- never welcome to return until someone finished what he couldn’t. He’d had hands on his skin, fingers curling around him, countless needy bodies beneath his own, their touch not in any way enough to sate the ache inside him. He’d felt his stomach clenching in on itself, tightening like a fist until he could take another drink of dirty river water just fill himself and stop the pang.

When Javier Escuella sees Arthur Morgan, he aches, he wants. Arthur Morgan is a good man -- the best among a group of murderers and thieves, anyway -- and has extended Javier many kindnesses in his half-year spent with the gang. He’s never faulted Javier for the way his tongue can’t quite wrap around certain English words, never asked about the stack of wanted posters bearing his likeness that sits just inside his trunk. Javier has ridden out with every man in this camp, and there’s nobody he’d rather be watching his back, not even Dutch. 

Javier wishes that when he looked at Arthur he saw *that* man: the man who offers his last cigarette to Javier, the man who pulls a knife out of Javier’s thigh and holds the flesh tight as hot blood rushes out over his hands. But Javier is a yearning, hungry thing, and he sees flashes of Arthur, not the whole -- the broad spread of his shoulders where they strain his shirt, the thickness of his thighs, and the way his weather-worn hands fit neatly on the grips of his revolvers.

He is guilty, now, of looking up through the veil of his hair and beyond the smokey haze of the fire at Arthur’s ember-lit profile. Though Javier’s eyes wander -- grazing along Arthur’s stubbled jaw and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes -- his fingers keep their pace on the strings of his stolen guitar. He doesn’t focus on the music, but plays a wordless tune that he could thoughtlessly strum out while his mind, and eyes, wandered. 

He’d been playing half-heartedly, on and off, in between swigs of a passed-around bottle for a few hours. The promising thud of a thick stack of bonds into their stash box after a without-a-hitch coach robbery was enough to fuel their reverie for half the night. Frankly, Javier had learned, it didn’t take much of an excuse for most of the men and some of the women of the camp to take to partying and drinking. Not that you would see him complaining about it, neither.

The late hour was beginning to tick over into the early hour, and the number of folks sat around the campfire smoking and drinking had dwindled down to just Arthur and Uncle, the latter of whom was spinning a wild yarn about exploring castles overseas, gesticulating with a bottle in hand all the while. Arthur, for his part, looks more or less interested in the story, and when Javier flicks his eyes up from his guitar again to chance another look he finds himself being looked at right back by Arthur.

Javier gives him a half smile and a nod, and focuses his attention back on his own strumming fingers. He’s most of the way through attempting to recreate an old saloon song from memory, watching the strings as they vibrate against his calloused fingertips, when he realizes that the lilting melody is the only sound filling the air.

Uncle has fallen asleep sat straight-up, tall tale as forgotten as the bottle that drops from his dangling fingertips onto the ground. Arthur reaches across the man to grab for the bottle before realizing it's been left empty.

“Aw, hell,” Arthur scoffs, throwing the bottle over his shoulder and into the brush behind him. “That's my fun spoiled. Sour bastard drank the last of the whisky.”

Javier considers this for a second before finally setting his guitar off the side. 

“No worries,” Javier says with a smile as he stands up, brushing the dry earth from his rear as he does so, not failing to notice how Arthur’s eyes follow his hands. He ducks into his tent, just feet away from the fire, and retrieves a liquor bottle from his personal effects before settling himself back into his seated position.

“If I don't have to share my liquor with Uncle,” Javier laughs, sloshing the clear bottle back and forth to emphasize its fullness, “we can have all the fun we want.”

The bottle had ridden in Javier's satchel since he had left Nuevo Paraíso in a great welter some months before being pulled into the the Van der Linde gang. It, among other few effects stuffed hurriedly into his saddlebags while his mother wrung her hands and cried, was all he had left of Mexico. He had always been of the mind to save it for something, but he realized now that sharing it with a trusted companion was as good a reason as any to drink it. 

Javier, perhaps, had other motivations for sharing the liquor with Arthur, but he tries not to examine his own desperation too closely.

“Well, you ain’t gotta twist my arm,” huffs Arthur on the tail on of a laugh, leaving his perch aside the still snoring Uncle to plunk himself down on the dirt unceremoniously next to Javier, knocking their knees and thighs together as he sits. “Careful opening that bottle though, one sniff of that booze might be enough to wake him.”

“Then I’ll just have to shoot him.” Javier snarks, prying the cork out of the bottle.

“It’d put me outta my misery.”

Javier finally works the cork out of the bottle with a quiet pop, and they both cast their eyes to Uncle, whose chin stays firmly planted against his chest, snores getting louder by the minute. At no risk of waking the old drunk, Javier snorts out a laugh, undignified, before taking a long drink of the tequila. It’s barely-sweet on his tongue and burns all the way down his throat, and he feels his cheeks begin to flush as he offers the liquor to Arthur. Arthur's fingertips fumble against his to grab the neck of the bottle, brushing perhaps more than strictly necessary, perhaps by Javier’s own design.

Arthur takes a longer drink yet before pulling the bottle away and coughing, “God, that is _some_ shit.”

Javier can’t help the amusement that works its way into his voice when he says, “Hey, I never said it was good. I said it was liquor.”

Arthur nods. “That you did.” 

Javier takes another nip of the liquor, leaving his eyes half-lidded, watching Arthur not only because Javier often feels the gnawing ache to do so, but because he has felt Arthur’s eyes upon him, like a physical sensation, more than once this evening, and he wants to know whether it was mere coincidence, or--.

Or perhaps Arthur fell prey to the same unnatural inclinations as Javier. Once is chance. Twice is coincidence. Three times -- well, maybe Arthur is just as hungry as he is.

Even with his head tipped back, even through the blur of his dark eyelashes, even with the dim firelight, it’s simple enough to see that Arthur is watching him, unwavering. Javier thrills under the gaze but does not react outwardly to it. He tips the bottle a little higher than needed, lets some of the booze spill over his lips and drip down his chin. Arthur swallows.

Javier pulls the bottle away and looks Arthur dead in the eye as he licks what he’s spilled off the rim, tongue lazing easy-as-you-please along the side of the bottleneck. He’s baiting Arthur, perhaps showing his hand even a little too much, but he could play it off innocently. Arthur, maybe subconsciously, licks his lips in response.

“Heh, whoops,” smirks Javier as he passes the tequila back with one hand and uses his poncho to wipe his chin with the other.

After taking another drink of his own, Arthur moves past Javier’s distractions to laud, “Well, piss-liquor or no, ‘s kind of you to share. You’re a good man, Mr. Escuella.” Arthur pats Javier on the back and Javier’s skin prickles beneath all the layers of his clothing at this touch.

He wordlessly nods his thanks. He knows Arthur is just being polite. Nobody with any decent sense would think call him a good man. Javier is heavy with knowledge of things that good men are never privy to. Javier knows the weight of a bag of dead-men’s gold teeth in his pocket, knows just what they’d sell for and where. He knows what a man’s last gasping breaths sound like, face down in the mud, wheezing around Javier’s knife in his lung. He knows how long it takes a body to char till it’s no longer recognizable to any relevant authority, knows the way that stench clings to his clothes and the inside of his nostrils. He knows all this and more besides.

Javier lets out a deep breath and decides he needs to drink more.

So he does, they both do, passing the tequila back and forth and chattering idly about tonight’s successful coach job, or the next job they might take. It’s comforting, companionable. Javier’s face feels warm and his skin is hot against the chill evening air.

Arthur asks him about Mexico and it surprises Javier that he even cares to know, but he shares a few light details, sparing the painful specifics of his family and failed revolution. He’s not ready to talk about those things yet.

“That where you learned to play like that? Guitar, I mean. You’re pretty good,” Arthur pries, bumping his knee into Javier’s as he shifts toward Javier to ask.

“Yeah,” he nods, putting himself more into Arthur’s space, their legs almost fully pressed together. He chances a look at Arthur and Arthur’s eyes never leave his face. The warmth and heat that sat on his skin have pooled now low in his gut. Javier feels a mite pathetic getting riled over nothing more than stolen glances, but if he knew how to read the looks Arthur had been giving him, then maybe there was more yet to be excited about.

"My father taught me to play when I was young. Never made me wealthy but it got me plenty of women," he supplies with a sly smile. _And men,_ he doesn’t say, but if Arthur was smarter than he looked then he could fill in the gaps.

Arthur snorts, “I’ll bet.”

They sit together in relative silence a while longer, the only noises breaking the air the crackling of the dying fire and the snores of Uncle and their fellow campmates.

“Well,” Arthur huffs, annoyed with the effort it takes to stand after the time he’s spent sitting and the alcohol he’s ingested hinders him. “S’pose I should be getting off to bed. Sun’ll be up in a few hours.”

Javier pulls his pocket watch out of his waistcoat and tips the face of it toward the dim light of the fire. He and Arthur have been drinking for hours, the only ones left awake in the camp. He looks up at Arthur, and for once Arthur isn’t looking at him. He gnaws on his tongue to tamp the feeling of disappointment that floods his chest.

Javier bids him a good night and Arthur bids him the same, and Arthur walks away.

But then, all Javier can see is the jut of his Arthur’s shoulder blades and the taper of his hips and the swell of his ass, and Javier is on his feet before he can even stop himself.

Arthur doesn’t hear him coming up behind him, so when Javier reaches out and grabs his forearm, Arthur stiffens. He turns around immediately but Javier doesn’t let go, just refastens his grip in the new position and crowds himself into Arthur’s space, pressing himself up close to his chest. Arthur looks like he wants to protest this, say something maybe to get Javier out of his space or figure out why the hell he’s in it. 

Javier can hear Arthur’s shuddered breathing, smell the liquor on his breath when he shamelessly leans in to his ear, feeling the scrape of Arthur stubble against his own smooth cheek, to whisper, “It’s a cold night. Maybe you could use somebody to keep you warm.”

Arthur groans, but if Javier hadn’t been so close to his lips he wouldn’t have heard it at all. He pulls away to look at Arthur, and there’s honest to god desire broadcast on his face before it’s replaced with fear and he pushes Javier away. Javier doesn’t let go of his arm.

Arthur casts nervous glances over each shoulder before turning back to Javier to hiss, “I ain’t an invert.”

Javier doesn’t know this word, but he knows the feeling behind it, the intention. He’s been called plenty similar things in his life -- _maricón_ , _puto_. He knows the scared look in Arthur’s eyes, like he’s trapped by more than just Javier’s hand on him. Men get wound pretty tightly when they think they could be strung up just for seeking their pleasure in another man.

Javier’s never been scared, just careful. He knows he could kill anybody who would want him dead over something so foolish. Has killed folk who had. He’s cautious, and it often means he doesn’t get to go home with anyone at the end of the night. And Arthur -- well, Javier doesn’t shit where he eats, knows he shouldn’t be trying anything with _anyone_ in camp, because if it ends with his knife in somebody else, he’s not just running from another two-steer town, he’s out of a _home_.

Still, even with Arthur looking like he might punch him, Javier thinks he’ll take the chance.

He leans in closer again, and Arthur doesn’t hit him, but he’s tense -- shoulders raised and fists clenched. “I never said you was,” Javier soothes, loosening his hand on Arthur’s arm and feeling him relax in return. “But I saw you watching me. Whole night. Your eyes never left me, Arthur.” Javier drops his voice to a whisper and adds, “Call that what you want.”

A flush finds Arthur’s face, tinging his cheeks a ruddier pink than even the alcohol could have done. His brow furrows, and he pushes his tongue against his cheek, maybe to keep himself from saying all kinds of things he’s never been allowed to say. Javier hopes he says them anyway. 

Arthur grabs him back, coarse fingers circling around his wrist, and they are closing each other in, each with a hand on the other’s arm, trapping all their dangerous thoughts right between them. 

“It ain’t -- I don’t --” Arthur frowns at himself, wincing, perhaps, at his own inability to find his words. He glances around again, petrified that anybody in this camp might catch them holding on to one another like this. When he speaks again, he’s looking over Javier’s shoulder as though he can’t bear to address either Javier or what he’s about to say directly. 

“I don’t know what I’m doing. I aint -- ... well, with a man. But you, y’re…” Arthur dares to look at Javier, at his eyes, at his hair falling into his face, at the scar on the bridge of his nose. 

“Well, you’re a lot to look at. I seen a lot of beautiful women in my life, but never a man so. . . well-kept.” Arthur laughs at his own admission, lets go of Javier’s wrist to scrape a hand over his mouth. “God, I must sound a fool.”

The thing is, Javier thinks, as he pushes himself against Arthur, connecting them from knees to hips, is that Arthur doesn’t at all. Javier knows all men have their particular talents -- for his part he could gut a man as well as he could bed one. 

He had always been fine to let folk believe what they wanted about him, encouraged it, maybe even. He bathed and dressed and kept himself well as much because he _knew_ he was worth looking at as because it kept people from examining his character, intimidated them out of speaking to him. Folks made their assumptions and went on their way and he liked that just fine. But then, Javier knows, he has a certain irresistibility to him.

Arthur Morgan was a fly in his web.

He flattens his hands against Arthur’s ribs, feels him tremble underneath the thin-worn cotton, moves his palms up and lets his fingers splay, catching the collar of Arthur’s shirt on their ascent.

“No, you don’t,” Javier soothes, voice low and tequila-sweet. “You think I’m beautiful, huh.” It’s not a question.

“S’pose,” Arthur responds, sheepishly. Javier feels the grumble of the answer against his hands. 

Javier presses in closer, to brush his jaw against Arthur’s, put his lips to Arthur’s ear again, wrapping a hand around the back of his skull and curling fingers against the heat of his neck. Whether from the alcohol or his own foolish and selfish and ravenous desires, Javier cannot help the slick words that puff against Arthur’s ear, hot and shameless.

“What are we going to do about that?”

He chances a firmer press of his hips against Arthur’s, and if he yet held any doubts about Arthur’s own neediness, well. Arthur’s desire is a thick line against the valley of his hip, firm and insistent and matching Javier’s own.

Javier holds Arthur tight to him, slides his lips against the chafe of stubble on Arthur’s cheek, letting his lower lip drag along the skin until he is nose to nose with the man. Arthur’s eyes close, and Javier takes that as all the permission he will ever need and presses their lips together in a jolt.

Javier doesn’t care to imagine all the women Arthur has kissed in the past, just as he’s sure Arthur wouldn’t like to entertain the thought of all the places he’s put his mouth. Still, Javier can’t help but think about it, because Arthur is being so damn _gentle_. Arthur’s hands have found their way, respectfully, to his hips, and no matter how Javier licks into Arthur’s mouth or rolls his hips against Arthur’s answering hardness, all he gets in response is the too-sweet press of Arthur’s lips against his own. 

Javier breaks them apart, uses the hand pressed between their chests to shove against Arthur, and growls, “Cmon,” pushing a firmer kiss against Arthur’s spit-slick lips, taking his whole bottom lip and nipping at it, harder, maybe, than was deserved. “I'm not a damn _woman_.”

Arthur grunts, but it’s a sound of amusement more than anger or annoyance. The hands on his hips slide down, firmer, to Javier’s rear, pressing the two of them tighter together. And then they’re kissing again, but there’s something to it this time, Arthur taking as much as Javier will give, and Javier kisses mad and wild and fast -- biting and nipping as much as proper kissing.

Arthur pushes them apart this time, and their faces are inches apart, sharing humid breaths, and Javier only wants to surge forward and keep making Arthur’s mouth look redder and more kiss-bitten yet, but Arthur whispers into the sacred space between them. “Not -- not here. There’s no privacy.”

They are being incredibly brazen with their behavior. There are snoring bodies that lie in tents only feet away from them, that, if sat up, could see exactly how they were embraced. Javier wouldn’t fool himself into thinking there was any privacy to be had anywhere or in any circumstance in this camp. They all lived in each other’s pockets, knew each other’s business. Still, some discretion was in order.

Javier’s tent was utterly out of the question, it was open to the fire, and effectively the entire camp, and he was forced to share the space with Bill.

Arthur’s lean-to was not a much better choice, but, in their current set-up it was at least in the back of the camp, faced away from everyone else’s shelters. Even exposed it would do better for...their purposes, supposing nobody took a very early morning stroll.

They start to stumble backward, toward Arthur’s lodging, still hanging onto each other and pressing foolish and too-sharp liquor-kisses to one another’s mouths and skin. They break apart completely only when they almost trip on Hosea’s feet, jutting out a shade too far from his tent. Arthur shoots him a nervous glance, like the reminder of other people in this camp has made him panicky and weary again.

Javier skims his hand down Arthur’s chest, until his hand is on the thick jut of Arthur’s cock pressing against the front of his work pants. He gives him a reassuring squeeze, and Arthur groans on an exhale and seems to release his tension and fear. 

Arthur’s back bumps into his wagon on their way, rattling the crates and guns inside as Javier pushes him against it to rub his palm against Arthur’s thickness, scrape teeth against his neck, and they’re supposed to be being quiet but Arthur’s heavy breathing is anything _but_. Javier grabs Arthur’s hand, drags him around to the right side of his tent, his cot facing the woods. He plants a hand on Arthur’s chest, pushing him down to sit on the cot.

“Gotta be quiet, _amigo_.” He hushes, dropping to his knees in the soft earth in front of Arthur. Javier wonders if Arthur is always this pliant, this willing, if when he beds a woman she has Arthur wrapped around her finger, doin’ everything she wants. Or -- if Arthur was as stunned by him as he said, truly willing to let Javier keep pushing and commanding him around. Maybe Arthur even really liked it that way, liked being told what to do.

Javier throws his poncho off, disheveling his hair even further as he pulls it off and tosses it aside. This done, he plants his hands on Arthur’s knees, looks him dead in the eye as he slides them up his thighs and squeezes, feels Arthur tense and release. Arthur hasn’t looked at him so directly all night, but here he is, physically pinned down by Javier, and his gaze is utterly piercing with want. It makes Javier’s mouth water.

Javier can’t tease him, not anymore, not when he wants the way he does, the way they both do. His hands scrabble against the gold of Arthur’s belt buckle, fumbling with need and the alcoholic buzz under his skin. Arthur’s hands meet his and at this point Javier is so ravenous he could settle for simply taking Arthur’s fingers into his mouth and knowing their taste and feel against his tongue.

He doesn’t have to, because Arthur’s pulling his belt from the loops and tossing it over on top of Javier’s poncho. Arthur shrugs his suspenders off his shoulder, and Javier pulls at the buttons on Arthur’s pants, and then the union suit underneath, until finally he has Arthur’s cock in his hand.

Javier finds his grip around the hot length, gives a loose stroke or two and watches as Arthur’s head lolls back, cause and effect. Javier knows he could do better, see the very break and strain of Arthur, and he wants _more_. Arthur’s eyes are still closed when Javier slides himself further down Arthur’s body, but when Javier licks the precum beading at the head of Arthur’s cock, Arthur snaps to rigid attention, body refocusing completely on Javier and his actions.

A hands finds itself on his head, pushing and encouraging, and Javier couldn’t disagree with its motivations. He takes more of Arthur into his mouth, until his lips have met his hand at the base. When Javier opens his eyes and takes in the the sight before him he is nothing less that deeply pleased with himself. Arthur is watching him back as ever -- beholding him, glorious thing that he is, knees in the dirt and hair tousled and mouth filled -- with an awestruck gaze and a hand over his own mouth to muffle his gasps.

He is lost in his own motions, the push and pull of his lips and tongue against Arthur’s length, and the power he feels, despite being on his knees. He doesn’t notice that Arthur has pulled his hair free until he feels it falling at his face, tickling his cheeks. His hair is tugged through Arthur’s thick fingers, yanking pressure against his scalp, and he lets out a sigh of his own.

When Arthur’s hands tighten in his hair, and his spine begins to curve and tense, Javier pulls off. He could allow Arthur to finish from this, but he has his own pleasure to consider, too. An affronted stare is leveled at him before Javier can ask,

“Is this all you want?”

There are any number of reasons why Arthur does not understand this question. Alcohol, Javier’s mind-numbing touch, the late hour. All the same, it results in his ignorance.

“What?”

“I just mean. I can… finish you like this, if you want.” Javier gives him a jerk with his wrist to emphasize his meaning. “Or,”

“Or?” Arthur interrupts, sitting fully upright, hands propped against his cot and curling tense to grip the wooden frame.

“Or we can warm that bed of yours.” Javier hopes Arthur doesn’t miss his meaning, but with the low register of his voice and Arthur’s very length in his hand, he’d have to be astoundingly thick-headed not to catch it.

“I --” Arthur swallows, thickly. Here is a line in the sand. Another man’s mouth on him he could write off, to himself or others, as drunken fumblings, a simple mistake. If he took Javier to bed, then, there was no turning back from that.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s almost a whisper, but Javier is keenly attuned to him now.

A line, crossed.

“Okay,” Javier agrees. He could, as he had all evening, see the war in Arthur, about his own predilections, about what was allowable and acceptable for him to do. Briefly Javier isn’t sure what Arthur will say, thinks he might be sent to bed without dinner, as it were. Javier had never struggled with his proclivities, not in the way that Arthur did.

Javier braces his hands on Arthur’s knees and stands up, noticing beyond the treeline the first signs of the sky beginning to lighten. He pulls off his necktie and vest, folding them neatly and setting them on top of Arthur’s belt and his poncho as not to dirty them. He decides, here and now, under Arthur’s watchful gaze, that whether or not the two of them get to do this again he will never tire of Arthur’s attention.

He palms himself in his trousers, for show as much for his own true enjoyment, lets a hot huff of air blow past his lips as he gives himself a teasing squeeze. Nobody knows how to touch Javier quite like he does.

A dirty blue shirt lands in a rumpled pile on top of his neatly folded clothing, and Javier turns to scold before he loses the words. Arthur had kicked his boots off, is shoving his pants and unbuttoned union suit down his hips, and Javier’s cock twitches. 

Arthur Morgan, naked and unashamed, bared from his jawline to the cords of his neck to his collarbones to his chest hair and all the scars on his skin, cock jutting flagrantly in front of him, and Javier’s perverse imagination could never ever best this particular reality. He wastes no time divesting himself of the rest of his clothing, being tidy with the remaining articles but not unhurried, no, he’s rushing because he knows what comes next.

Even if Arthur isn’t quite sure. Javier’s certain enough for the both of them.

The night air is chill on their skin, Javier can see the gooseflesh on Arthur’s bare arms -- the tequila they had passed around earlier was still warming his own skin, some. He thinks about pressing his whole body to Arthur’s to warm them both, knows he won’t have to wait long to do it.

Arthur leans toward him, voice low, secretive, “Do you need me to…” and he gestures, vaguely towards Javier’s nude form, with his hands, of what he imagines Javier might need him to do.

The laugh that chases its way out of Javier is too loud for the discretion they were supposed to be exercising. “No, just relax, ok.” Javier’s warm palm pushes its way against the center of Arthur’s chest, forcing him to sit back down on the cot.

“Kinda hard to relax, when you got me all wound up like this,” Arthur grumbles, but he leans back on his elbows just the same, pulls his legs up off the ground and onto the bedding.

“Didn’t take much work to get you goin’,” taunts Javier, and Arthur wrinkles his nose, perhaps at the implication that he was easy to be had. 

Javier pulls his gaze away from Arthur to glance around Arthur’s lean-to, eyes scanning the table, crates. “I just need--” There, on top of a barrel and next to Arthur’s shaving mirror, a tin of half-empty pomade. It wasn’t ideal, but in his life Javier seldom dealt with ideals. The texture of it is more or less like vaseline, but when Javier pulls the lid off the green container it has a musky, perfumed scent to it. 

His bare toes are cold against the skin of Arthur’s thigh when he props one leg up on the cot. He dips two fingers into the pomade, arches his chest forward, lets his head drop and his hair fall in front of his face, and then dips his fingers into himself. The sigh he breathes out at the feeling tickles the hair underneath his bottom lip, but he doesn’t hear it because the exhale released by Arthur is louder yet.

A feverish hand grips around his ankle, but it’s a soft and steadying touch, firm but gentle in its intentions, like Arthur himself, possibly. Arthur’s other hand is at work, slowly stroking his cock, easy as you please, and the weight of his gaze on Javier while he touches himself makes Javier’s skin buzz. Javier manipulates the grease into himself under Arthur’s exquisite scrutiny until he decides either that he is ready enough or that he can wait no longer.

He pulls his foot off the cot and retrieves the tin of pomade he had tossed on the ground, taking more of the grease on his hand and casting the container aside again.

“How do you want me?” Arthur asks as he sits up, ready again to be told what to do and how to move by Javier.

“Just like that.” Javier says with a mischievous smile, crawling onto the cot which groans under their combined weight. He pushes Arthur down again, and Arthur’s head thumps against his pillow as he falls back. The grease makes his hand slide easily down Arthur’s thickness when he takes it in his palm, and Arthur groans out a, “God.”

As Javier slides up Arthur’s prone body, knees tightening against Arthur’s ribs as he positions himself how he wants, he once more shushes, “Gotta be quiet, Arthur.” But, then it is a lost cause entirely as Javier lets himself sink down onto Arthur’s cock and Arthur’s jaw drops, letting loose a groan like he’d been wounded. Arthur’s hands jolt toward Javier for purchase, digging into the meat of Javier’s thighs and squeezing like the feeling is too much, like it’s so good it almost hurts and he wants to hurt Javier back. Javier loves the way this small pain feels mixed with the great pleasure of being filled.

When he is fully seated, the hot flesh of Arthur’s abdomen meeting against his rear, he surveys his position. He feels kingly, power-drunk and loyally admired, and this is thusly a fitting throne for him.

Javier does not know when he is his truest self: when he lets his anger burn in his gut and fill him up until he cannot barely see for the quaking rage that narrows his vision; or when he is like this, devoid of everything but physical feeling, overwhelmed and consumed by the bliss that sparks underneath his skin. He does not know. But, he thinks, he’ll keep fighting and fucking until he figures out which makes him feel best.

Javier cants his hips forward and back, picking himself up just slightly on the upstroke. He braces his hands against Arthur’s chest for leverage, skidding his fingers along Arthur’s ribcage. The sound of his skin meeting Arthur's, and the cot creaking, and their collective gasps, fills the space and it is brazen, this thing they are doing, and Javier doesn't _care_ anymore, if he ever really did at all.

Arthur’s hand lifts off his thigh, moves to touch Javier’s straining cock, but Javier pushes his hand away, grabs it and puts it back on his thigh.

There is a discouraged pout on Arthur’s face when he sighs, “Wanna do something for you, too.”

Javier smirks, “You’re doing it, cowboy.” He increases his pace, rocks his hips to emphasize his point, and Arthur seems to forget about it, letting his head drop back against his pillow.

Javier feels bad, for a second, for not letting Arthur touch him, but then Arthur is getting just as much out of this as he was, and his flushed cheeks and tensed thighs beneath Javier are proof enough of that. The thing is, when men touch him, they're grasping for their own pleasure, not his. Although he is usually the one in the receiving position, Javier always maintains staunch control over his own body. He is nobody’s to be used. 

Arthur sighs out his name, and Javier basks in it, savors the way Arthur’s tongue flattens his name into something pronounceable. Loves the way it sounds like a plea. Javier curls a hand around himself, at last, and a whine escapes from behind his bitten lower lip. In the aim of stifling the keening noises his lungs cannot bear to contain, Javier takes his other hand off of Arthur’s chest and sucks his own fingers into his mouth. He presses down on his tongue, licking the familiar taste of sweat and dirt off his own skin, squeezes his cock in time with bites of his knuckles.

His name is gasped out again, and Javier, through half-lidded eyes, welcomes the way Arthur is drinking him in.

He imagines that he must looks so beautiful like this: hair tossed back and falling gently against his neck, face contorted in ecstatic pleasure, lantern light shining against the sweat on his chest, the tense and release of his thighs as he works himself up and down. God, Javier thinks of how alluring he had looked when he had touched himself in front of a mirror, watching all the ways his own bliss twisted his body when he tipped over the edge.

He is so envious that Arthur gets to watch him, wishes he could see himself reflected in Arthur’s reverent gaze.

The coiling heat in his stomach is winding tighter and tighter, and Javier’s toes curl with anticipated euphoria. His saliva-slick hand lands back on Arthur’s chest with a smack, and the moan that breaks its way out of his unhindered mouth is a shameful, raw thing.

He comes in pulses, stroking himself through it, his spend landing on Arthur’s stomach and pooling in his belly button.

Javier knows Arthur won’t be far behind him, so he pulls himself off him, not wanting Arthur to finish inside of him. Arthur groans at the loss, but Javier swipes his hand through the spend on Arthur’s stomach, uses that and the remaining grease to jack Arthur’s cock in his hand, rapidly, until Arthur is coming too on a deep sigh, his release adding to the mess on the planes of his own abdomen.

Javier rocks back on his heels and laughs, unbidden. He rakes a hand through his thick, dark, hair, pushing the locks out of his face where they had been brushing against his cheeks. Arthur looksed wrecked, a mess of sweat and their fluids, his forearm thrown back over his eyes as he regainsed his breath.

“What’s so funny? Sober up a bit and realize you took the wrong gal home?” Arthur needles.

Javier rises from the cot and laughs again as he says, “No, it ain’t that. I think you were exactly the girl to take home.” He picks up his necktie off the ground, a bright yellow thing that looked splendid with the deep black of his waistcoat. He tosses it at Arthur, who catches it handily, and adds, “Just didn’t think this is how my night was gonna go.”

Arthur ‘ _hmms_ ’ as he uses Javier’s necktie to wipe himself down, and then sits up to give Javier a curious look. “How did you think your night was gonna go?”

“Same as always, face down on my bedroll with Bill’s snoring keepin’ me awake all fuckin’ night.”

“Well, I’m sorry you had to miss that.”

Javier hops into his jeans and leans down to grab his folded up shirt, replies on an exhale, “Yeah, I ain’t.”

Arthur’s feet hit the ground and the reality of what they’ve done settles into the space between them, pervasive and creeping. Arthur clears his throat as Javier buttons his waistcoat, and as Javier sits on the cot to tug his boots on, he turns to Arthur and says,

“It ain’t gotta be anything. I walk outta here, it’s forgotten.” It’s not a promise, but an offer, one that Arthur seems to consider before he says, nodding, “Sure.” It’s not a firm answer and Javier is not convinced that this is any kind of end. In a way, he has left his foot in the door, could maybe crack it open and walk right inside whenever he wanted.

He finishes dressing, hangs his penknife back on his waistcoat, and, when Arthur is pulling his union suit on, his back to Javier, Javier takes the opportunity to snatch up his soiled necktie where it had been discarded. He quickly stuffs it underneath Arthur’s pillow -- a calling card -- ensuring in his own way this would _not_ be forgotten, guaranteeing Arthur would need to seek him out to give it back.

As Javier bids him goodnight, he feels sated, body aching sweetly from muscles over-strained in their bliss. 

A hunger, aching and ravenous, still flickers in his gut, and Javier knows he will never be able to contain it -- manage it, maybe.

But never put it out.


End file.
